On my way to the airport on Friday– heading to Dhaka for the weekend– I saw a side of Cal that I’ve never seen before—the quiet side. Granted, it was 5 am but it was the first time that I’ve seen the streets of the city empty but for a few taxis and a couple early-risers up and about on their one-speed Chinese bicycles. Traffic cops apparently use then to commute, making use dual use of those goofy looking white helmets they have to wear.
The empty streets of Cal are particularly stark because so much living is done on the streets—people bathe, have haircuts and shaves, and buy everything from produce to DVDs to towels to luggage on the sidewalks, or footpaths, of Calcutta. In a city where space is such a rare commodity, privacy is expected, let alone taken for granted. Walking around the lake near the guesthouse on a rainy day, I had to hurdle canoodling couples every few inches. Though it may be that young Calcutta’s collective libido is especially firey in the monsoon (something about the rain, I suppose), another explanation for the profusion of PDA is the lack of private space for those displays of affection that might otherwise not be public. Things we might normally relegate to the confines of our own homes, those Things We Do Behind Closed Doors—sleeping, eating, fighting with families, punishing children, nosepicking, picking of other body parts, actually any bodily function at all—is only private for those wealthy enough to afford space and doors behind which to have a private life. This is also perhaps why Indians are so nosey—I mean, inquisitive. Without an ingrained notion of privacy which governs your own actions and behaviors, how can you possibly comprehend when, how and why you might trod on the personal space of others?
